


Call'em What you Will

by troublemakersmark



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Brotherly Affection, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt, Mild Gore, Mild Language, Pain, Sibling Love, The Author Regrets Everything, i wonder how many tags i should add to this before it gets annoying, whoops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-05 19:08:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troublemakersmark/pseuds/troublemakersmark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of shorts: pain, scars, battles, and shit tons of whiskey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. There's a Time for Everything

The number of times they'd woken from a drunken stupor, knuckles bloody, sometimes broken, often bruised, was more than they even cared to count.

Each time, they just shook out their hands, adjusted the hang of their jeans on their hips, and moved to clean up the mess. Every now and then, they'd had to dig out a chunk of tooth, stolen from some unlucky bastards jaw, deep inside the softer, easily punctured spaces between bone.

What never changed, though, was how they'd both hiss and groan, hunching over the stained sink, each time they cleaned their wounds.

Sometimes, the infection would set in after, leaving their hands swollen and stiff, angry red, unable to grip and flex. When that happened, unsaid, the other brother would light an extra cigarette along side his own. Each time.


	2. Blood and vinegar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the longest time, the most they had to worry about were the bruises.

For the longest time, the most they had to worry about were the bruises.

Ugly things, that spread out like ink stains. Inky bluish-black in the perfect imprint of someones knuckles, their big rings; sometimes, the heel of a boot, stamped into their chests. Then they'd grow, making those imprints less perfect, turning moldy green and yellow and a strange shade of purple-grey, like the sky over Galway during a storm.

Connor had the more conventionally 'pretty' face of the two; a little more symmetrical, a little bolder. That's what they aimed for, the guys that started the fights, because the brothers certainly didn't start them, only finished them. And Connor was built like a block of cement, compact and unbreakable. The guys starting the fights, they'd try a single body shot, realize that they couldn't even make a dent in the block that was Connor, and go for his face instead. They'd try to break his jaw, his nose, his eye sockets, take away some of the 'pretty' that symbolized what their wives or girlfriends liked so much. But Connor had learned the art of fending off blows, glancing them to the side, waiting until they'd tired themselves out before returning the punches.

Murphy, though, wasn't as 'pretty' or as compact, so any punch was fair game. And, unlike Connor, Murphy hadn't quite learned how to dodge the punches, too busy giving as much as he took, diving in head first, raging, and hoping he'd come out okay. 

Murphy ended up with most of the bruises. Connor may have ended up with a slightly darkened eye, plain on his face, but Murphy had the deep, dark ones, hidden under his clothes. There were times when he'd ended up pissing blood for a week, kidneys bruised to shit because he'd left himself open going for the same area on the other guy. Those weeks, Connor would swear off drinking, ban alcohol, yelling at Murphy that he needed to heal before he fucked his kidneys up any worse with the cheap whiskey he preferred.

For the longest time, the most they had to worry about were the bruises. 

Once the gun games started, that all changed. They got lucky the first time with the Russians. The second time, at the titty-bar, was a walk in the park. But after that, their hits started fighting back - and they had the fire power to do more damage than the guys at the bars did, with their big fists and heavy rings. The equivalent of a bar-fight punch was a bullet to the chest.

When it came to the guns, the places the hits aimed for was in reverse. 

The hits aimed their guns at Connors torso, trying to slow him down, keep his compact brick body as far away as they could. And Connor would wait, hold back, dodging bullets until their magazines were empty and they scrambled to reload.

The hits aimed for Murphys head. The way he dove in, coming right at them, they tried to drop him where he stood otherwise he would keep pressing forward. Even if they did shoot him, somewhere-anywhere on the body, he'd keep coming, an unstoppable force. Except, the blows he took were far more dangerous this time, and Murphy still wasn't too keen on learning how to dodge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one. I have a feeling they'll get longer and longer, as I get more comfortable writing. Maybe the dialogue will come soon. What do you guys think, aye?


	3. The Brontide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chances taken are chances you don't get back.

The first close call was the Russians, Ivan and Shitforbrains, after the bar. Murphy being led away as Connor was cuffed to the toilet. Murphy being pushed to his knees in an alleyway, forced to look down the barrel of the gun aimed at the space between his eyes, gravel digging into his knees. Murphy being saved by a falling toilet, just as a fat finger started squeezing the trigger. In the end, Connor had a sprained ankle, a fucked up knee, and a matching set of ugly, bloody, sure-to-leave scars, rings around his wrists. Murphy got away clean. Between them, they had a new job, an extra two-thousand dollars, a few gold rings, a pair of guns, a pager, and a need for some new bathrobes.

The second close call was a smaller job, after ‘Fatman’ Petrova and his under-hands at the hotel, a job Rocco had set up, another lackey. But things never went according to plan, so what was supposed to be one guy, one hit, turned out to be three. Bullets had started flying before they’d even made it through the door, and while Connor hung back, using the door as a shield, Murphy stormed forward. Of course, this made him an easier target, and three guns turned their focus to the one they could see, the one that wasn’t hiding, the one coming straight at them. Before long, a bullet whizzed by Murphy’s ear and he’d dropped to the floor like dead weight. Connor thought he was just dead – until Murphy rolled under a table and screamed out his rage as his finger pulled the trigger a little harder, a little faster, until the three-that-was-supposed-to-be-one were laying sprawled over the couch, the kitchen, though a doorway. In the end, Murphy had few days of hearing loss and some powder burns on the lobe of his ear and neck that itched like shit but he couldn’t scratch. Connor came away clean. Between them, they had a fight, both throwing punches at each other, as Connor yelled that he needed to be more careful, that he couldn’t just fucking do that, and Murphy yelled that he was doing just find, that he could take care of himself, that he didn’t need anybody looking after him.

The third close call wasn’t really a close call at all. They’d decided to let Rocco join in, knowing that he could pull his weight, that he had information they didn’t, and he wouldn’t quit begging them to let him help. The hit itself had gone as smoothly as could be arranged – a few fuck ups, more people than they’d thought there’d be, the sick fuck they were after hidden in the bathroom. Rocco had his wrist fractured by a towel rack and a crushed pinky granted while he was smashing the sick fucks head in with a cue ball. They’d left, smiling and laughing, thinking they’d done good, nothing too serious had gone wrong, still high strung. As they walked out the front door, all giddy-ness left, because now things were going wrong. There wasn’t supposed to be anybody else, nobody waiting for them, nobody looking for them – but the man across the street, the fucking _senior citizen_ , wearing a paper-boys cap and a trench coat, which turned out to have six, _six_ fucking guns strapped to a vest underneath it, changed that. Murphy didn’t rush in, like he usually did, but he still got shot first. The bullet tore through his arm, and he fell to the side, off the porch, and into the bushes – like dead weight again. Rocco was the second to suffer, the bullet taking off his crushed pinky entirely, and he followed Murphy down, taking the perfectly landscaped hedges with him. Connor was last, left alone on the porch, the easiest target, pulling the trigger as quickly as he could – the old man was losing energy, he’d already been shot, and he was on his last gun. Connor didn’t notice the bullet tearing through his thigh, not until the old man’s pistol was empty and he’d turned and started running. Murphy was screaming, still pulling the trigger, despite an empty magazine. Rocco had given up on shooting, holding his hand, trying to stop the blood that coated him down to his elbow. There was no time for any of that, though, as Connor forced the both of them up, throwing them the bags, spraying the blood that coated everything around them with the spray-can of ammonia. In the end, none of them came away clean. Between them, they shared the duty of cauterizing and bandaging each other’s wounds, and a bottle of cheap whiskey in silence.

The fourth time was in no way a close call, it was just a disaster. It started bad, and only got worse. They should have waited for a better time, they shouldn’t have brought Rocco, they shouldn’t have been whisper-yelling at each other about how to open the window, they shouldn’t have even been there. After getting the window open, barely big enough to squeeze though, Rocco had gone first – when he’d yelped and slide through a bit too fast, followed by a loud thump, they just thought he’d fallen, and called him a stupid prick. Murphy went next, but as he yelped and was _pulled_ in, Connor knew it wasn’t a fall – and then he felt the barrel against the back of his head, warm, like it’d just been pulled out of the waist band of some fat fucks pants. Murphy tried to put up a fight, from the sound of it, but a quick, sickly loud ‘whump’, which turned out to be the butt of a gun to his temple, and a groan put an end to that. Connor was dragged to the door of the basement by the back of his coat, gun still pressed tight against him, and pushed through – Rocco lay on the floor regaining consciousness, blood oozing down his nose, over his eyes, from a gash at the edge of his hair line, and Murphy was kneeling, holding the side of his head, more blood running down his cheek, into his eye, through his fingers, shaking another fat fucks hand off his shoulder. The three of them were dragged to another room, handcuffed arm and leg to chairs, punches aimed at their ears when they wouldn’t sit still, when they cursed at the fat fucks with their fat hands, when they looked at them wrong. They were all expecting ‘Papa Joe’ Yakkavetta, but they didn’t expect the fat fucks to release one of Rocco’s hands, the one still fully intact, or for Yakkavetta to take the shot that took off the remaining pinky. They stomped their feet, strained against handcuffs, shouting, screaming, as Rocco stayed silent, almost unconscious, and Yakkavetta and his men left the room. They stomped, yelled, prayed as only minutes later Yakkavetta returned, and unfazed, calm, unrushed, shot Rocco through the chest – expected him to turn his gun to them next, though he only walked out of the room again. Together, they watched Rocco die – Murphy close enough to see his last breath escape him, his eyes lose something they couldn’t name. They didn’t know why, but nobody came back into the room, so they worked to get themselves out of their cuffs, to prepare, to get to Rocco. Murphy volunteered to the torture of getting his hand out of the cuffs first - he had the slimmer wrists, the thinner thumbs, but it still took six falls of Connors thick boots against the metal, six attempts of pure agony, before his thumb and forefinger dislocated, and his hand was small enough to slide through. It was a minute later that one of the fat fucks decided to check in on them, and Murphy stabbed him in the back with the sharp point of the cuffs, digging through his pockets after he was good and dead, to find the keys that would un-cuff Connor. They could have left the room, gone and found Yakkavetta, kill him like there were planning, but they both knew it would be suicide as with a single gun a piece, they wouldn’t make it even close. So instead, they righted Rocco, placed pennies on his eyes, kneeled, and began their prayer, hoping that God would realize that Rocco was a good man, not like the others, not an evil doer like the many that had been killed in their presence or by their hands. They were interrupted by the old man, the _senior fucking citizen_ that’d caused them so much trouble last time, but who had their prayer on his lips, his guns put away, his hands up, as he spoke the words as only their family knew by heart. In the end, only he came away clean, their da’. Together, they relocated Murphy’s thumb and finger, bandaged the gory wound that came from a portion of his hand being partially de-gloved and the gash to the side of his head, shared an extra bottle of whiskey for their friend, the worry and fear knowing that it could easily have been either of them lying dead on the floor, and for two weeks after, the same bed, just so they could each be sure that, when they woke from flashback-nightmares in the middle of the night, the other were still alive and not back in that room, handcuffed to a chair, gasping for air they couldn’t catch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well fuck, this one was a hard one to write. I kept getting my words wrong, or mixed up, and couldn't think right. Might also have something to do with how long this one is, too. I'm sure there are grammar and spelling mistakes, so if you'd point them out to me, I'd be happy to correct them. Also, I'm not sure why I added that non-cannon one. I think it's just because I wanted to include the whole 'think Murphy's dead' part.


	4. Three Minutes Younger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Character evaluation.

Murphy had a thing about him that kept him moving, always. Something inside him that said he could never sit still, that he had to keep going, move, move, move, on edge all the time. Something to make people notice him, that he was there, that he was an unstoppable force. He twitched, he fidgeted, he was never still.

From the moment he got up in the morning, the first to stand; scratch the back of his head; adjust the jeans he’d slept in around his waist; slide on his dusty boots and stuff the laces inside without tying them; put the kettle on and fill the two identical mugs with instant coffee grounds.

When they prayed together every morning, Murphy was the first to finish; threading and twisting and winding the rosary between his fingers; rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck; mouthing his words so quickly that the fingers he used to keep track of the prayer beads couldn’t keep up.

When he sat, thinking, he chewed at his nails; scratched his three-weeks-worth of stubble; ran his fingers through his hair; smoothed his palms over his jeans. 

When he laughed, he used his whole body, throwing his head back and his arms out; stomping his feet, bouncing, hopping; falling to his back so his feet could kick freely in the air. 

When he fought, fists clenched, he was the first to dive in; rabbit punches into ribs and kidneys and ears and spines; bouncing around on the balls of his feet; keeping his hands up and moving. 

Fuck, even while he smoked, he’d twirl the cigarette between his fingers; change hands each time he took a drag; chew on the butt until it was completely crushed, non-existent; try and chase the smoke away with his fingers.

This need to move came in handy, though; when the Russians came bursting through the door, he was the first one standing; when he saw the toilet falling from the roof, he was quick to duck, barely missing the bullet meant for his head; when Il Duce confronted them for the first time, he’d moved to the side, just in time to catch the bullet aiming for his heart with his arm instead.


	5. Light Noise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their first message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. That last drabble was an utter failure, and I hated it. But I like this one.

The first message they received, they were in their young twenties, squatting in an apartment with all it's windows broken in South Boston. In the middle of winter, like now, they'd wake up with gray snow on their pillows, a thin layer caked over the piles of blankets they huddled under to keep warm.

For Murphy, dreamless sleep was interrupted, though it didn't rouse him. Awareness, without waking. Transposed on his eyelids, he saw gray skies, rumbling and angry – bright flashes of lightning. Transposed further, flashes of Connor; the rosary hanging on his chest, the line of his jaw and it's blonde stubble, the hollows of his collar bone, broad shoulders and thick neck, his hands, clenched into fists, the bold script of 'Veritas' stretching from thumb joint to second knuckle, the curve of his eyebrow over a closed eye. A flash of lightning, and the eye was open now, staring straight back, as if his face was mere inches away. His brightness, against the dark of the sky.

For Connor, a dream was in progress – and it was a nice dream, one where he was a cowboy in the Old West, in a open field sitting next to a fire, bright stalks of grain swaying in the breeze – when it was interrupted by a scream, Murphy shouting his name – and he was suddenly on his back, looking up at the blue sky, clouds lazy in their smooth flow. Transposed, he could see Murphy, shirtless, chest heaving and rosary swinging. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark against the sunlight blinding him. Eyes staring straight at him, and though the body spoke of rage, of running, of pain, his eyes were wide and open and clear, inches away. He could feel it in his bones, in his gut, in the palms of his hands and the lines of his own face, when the face in front of him, Murphy's face, suddenly stretched into a wide grin.

Murphy opened his eyes to the sound of thunder. Connor opened his eyes to the sound of laughter. On two separate beds, twin bundles of blankets and thin layers of snow, both of them pushed their blankets down to find the other staring back. 

“Cherish that for which I have given you--” “For though I have torn your soul in twain--” “I have given you each your half--” “So that you may protect it, comfort it--” “And find love with you always, in this world--” “Where soon, you may find yourself without--” “Remember all that I have given you.”

Together, they sighed out a single breath, and as Connor lifted the edge of his heap of blankets in invitation, Murphy was already crossing the small distance between their beds, dragging his own snow covered pile with him. Together, they layered the new blankets to the top, and as Murphy slid in beside his brother, tucking himself close to the warmth of Connors chest, head under chin, Connor curled around his brother, arm wrapping around thin-broad shoulders to cradle the back of Murphy's neck.

“He has a plan for us.”

“Aye. There'll be work soon.”

“Soon. Aye.”

They did not question it – they dare not question it. God had seen fit to speak with them, and they understood. There was no need to discuss, no need to ponder, no need to ask. Connor pressed a heavy kiss, lips tight, to the top of Murphy's head, and Murphy's fingers grappled a hold against Connor's chest, searching for the rosary's they both knew had been hung near the door, twin crosses swaying together. They fell asleep that way – together, as laughter and thunder rung in tandem, white noise in their ears.


	6. Prophet, Martyr, Saint

If it wasn't for their work, they would have been mistaken for simple heretics. Wild hair, wild eyes, surrounded by sin, scum and villainy - partaking of it often themselves in the form of alcohol, tobacco and curse.

There was a joke in the family, among their friends that knew them when they were young, back home. They'd stolen a donkey, a filthy ass, from a neighbor down the road, tethered it to a tree behind the house overnight and rode it into town to school the next morning - laughing and cursing the entire way, covered in dirt from tumbles they'd taken trying to get on the ass in the first place. They'd looked like two little John-the-fucking-Baptists, riding into the school yard.

That little stunt had earned them three separate beatings each - the nun that managed to catch them before escape, Ma after they got home, and the old man that owned the ass they'd stolen, after Ma had dragged them down the road to apologize. But, it also earned them recognition from the town, from their peers, from their priest - news spread fast and far - and they enjoyed every benefit of it.

Now, at twenty-seven, they still hadn't lost those qualities about them, though the situations were different. Their hair was still wild, eyes wide and burning, faces and hands streaked with the dirt and blood sounding them - and the bullets, shells, casings flying between them, burning and smoking with the fire their finders would soon discover themselves cocooned with in Hell, judged by all the Saints and Angels, tormented by sin and steaming devils. 

Though it wasn't all judgement and damnation. Murphy looked three times the heretic in the morning, bead-head, corpse breath, three-day stubble - Connor after a night of drinking. They each had a laugh at the others expense, amid curses in colorful languages and filtering cigarette smoke. Among cries of blasphemy, enculé, vaffanculo, light banter would become heavy hands and strong arming - until it would do no good either way, and with each move, the situation would only become more obvious - until curses would become chuckles. They would try to smooth their wild hair, rub bleary eyes, and attempt to replace the dry death in their mouths away with smoke and tepid beer.

Surrounded by sin, by scum and by the evils of the world, they were guilty only of childish pranks, alcohol, tobacco, curse and looking a little like heretics - a little like John-the-fucking-Baptist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't put much stock into my own writing, but after a weekend of copious drinking and the boys in the background on repeat, a St. Patty's tradition, I realized I couldn't help myself. Tell me what you think, yeah? I'd appreciate it.


End file.
